"Never mind," I said. "He is not here. Where the devil has he got to now?"

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Glances were exchanged.

"Not to worry, ma'am," Charles said. "Abdullah has gone with him."

I put my gla.s.s carefully down on the table before I spoke. "Gone," I said. "Where?"

All eyes, including mine, were fixed on Charles. He was saved from his difficulty by the advent of Emerson himself. As usual, he left the door open. Glancing at me, he remarked, "A hair of the dog, MISS Peabody?" before heading for the table and pouring a stiff whiskey and soda for himself.

Several replies came to my mind. Dismissing them all as unnecessarily provocative and unproductive of information, I said, "What luck?"

Emerson turned, leaning against the table with his gla.s.s in his hand. His expression roused the direst of suspicions. I knew that look well- the brilliance of those sapphire-blue eyes, the tilt of his brows, the little quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Smug" is perhaps the wrong word. It always suggests, at least to me, a certain primness which could never under any circ.u.mstances apply to Emerson. "Self-satisfied"

is closer the mark.

"Luck?" he repeated. "I suppose you would call it that,- I prefer to think of it as the result of experience and training. I have found another boundary stela. I thought there must be another one along the northern perimeter. It is in sad condition, so it behooves us to copy the inscription as soon as possible."

Charles choked on his sherry. "I beg your pardon," he gasped, pressing a serviette to his lips.

"Quite all right," said Emerson genially. "Contain your delight, Charles, I promise you will be the first to have a go at it."

"Thank you, sir," said Charles.

"I cannot imagine what is wrong with me," I exclaimed, pressing my hands to my throbbing head. "Ordinarily I can follow Emerson's train of thought, even when it is incomprehensible to normal people, but I am at a loss to understand him now. He is up to something- but what?"

I was not talking to myself, but to Cyrus. He had insisted on taking me back to my room immediately after dinner. Since there were no other volunteers I accepted his offer, for I was not feeling quite up to par.

He did not reply at once, being preoccupied with the difficulty of opening the door while both hands were supporting me.

"Allow me," I said, reaching for the k.n.o.b.

Cyrus's efficient steward had tidied the room and left a lamp burning. It was not until Cyrus was about to lower me onto the bed that I saw something that brought a cry to my lips. "Curse it! Someone has been going through my papers!"

Cyrus gazed around the room. Being a man, he saw nothing out of place "The steward . . ." he began.

"He would have no excuse for opening the box in which I keep letters and personal doc.u.ments. See, there is a corner of paper protruding; I hope you do not believe I would be so untidy! Hand me the box, will you please?"

It was a metal container of the sort solicitors employ, I had not locked it, since the only papers it presently contained were the letters I had received and my notes on "The Tale of the Doomed Prince " The rubbings I had made in the royal tomb and my excavation notes were in another portfolio.

Quickly I sifted through the pile of papers. "There is no doubt about it," I said grimly. "He did not even bother to replace them in the same order. Either he is criminally inexperienced, or he did not care whether I detected his efforts."

"Is anything missing?" Cyrus asked.

"Not from here. Er- Cyrus, would you mind turning your back for a moment?"

He gave me a hurt, quizzical look, but at once complied. The rustling of the bedclothes must have driven him wild with curiosity, his shoulders kept twitching. Like the gentleman he was, he remained motionless until I bade him turn around.

"Even more curious," I said, frowning. "Nothing at all is missing. One would have supposed . . ."

"That a trained thief would look first under the mattress?" Cyrus inquired, eyebrows raised. "I won't ask what you've got there, Amelia, but you sure could find a better hiding place. Never mind, doesn't the fact that your treasure, whatever it is, has not been taken suggest that it was only a curious servant who searched your papers?"

"It suggests to me that the searcher's motive is even more sinister than I could suppose, since I am unable to determine what it is."

"Oh," said Cyrus. He scratched his chin.

His lean frame and rough-hewn features, the epitome of masculinity, looked quite incongruous in the pretty, luxurious room. I invited him to sit down, and he perched uncomfortably on the edge of a fragile chair.

"It's no wonder you're feeling poorly, my dear," he said. "Most men would be flat-out after such an experience. I wish you would take it easy."

I ignored this ridiculous suggestion. "Since idle speculation as to the motives of the searcher is a waste of time, let me return to the subject of Emerson. He is extremely pleased with himself, Cyrus. That is a bad sign. It can only mean that he has discovered a clue to the ident.i.ty or the whereabouts of our enemy- some fact already known to him, or it would not have prompted his cry of 'What a fool I am!' What can it be? If Emerson can think of it, I ought to be able to. He was talking about taking me to Cairo- strangers on the train . . medical attention . . . Of course! What a fool I am!"

The dainty chair creaked ominously as Cyrus shifted his weight I was too excited to note this evidence of discomfort. "Follow my reasoning, Cyrus," I cried. "If we had believed that I- or Emerson, who was the intended victim- had been infected, we would have set out for Cairo. Our enemy would have intercepted us. But why would he delay until we were on the train? He would have a better opportunity of ambushing our party between here and Derut- on the felucca that carried us across the river, or along the road to the railroad station. He was here, Cyrus- here in the village, staying with the 'Omdeh in all probability, for that is where tourists find accommodations- and that is where Emerson was going, to the house of the 'Omdeh! If you had not- "

The chair gave off a series of alarming squeaks. Cyrus leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Cyrus," I said very gently. "You knew this. You lied to me, Cyrus. I asked you where Emerson had gone, and you said- "

"It was for your own good," Cyrus protested. "Doggone it, Amelia, you scare the d.i.c.kens out of me sometimes, the way you figure things out. You sure you don't practice witchcraft on the sly?"

"I wish I did. I would like to be able to put curses on certain people. Speak up, Cyrus. Tell me all."

I had been absolutely correct, of course. A party of tourists had arrived that morning, on horseback.

They had requested the hospitality of the 'Omdeh but had changed their minds and departed, somewhat abruptly, shortly after we returned.

"They- or someone who reported to them- must have overheard Abdullah announce the dog was not rabid," I mused.

"The whole darned countryside heard Abdullah," Cyrus grunted.

"It was not his fault. It was no one's fault. So that is why Emerson was wandering around the northern cliffs this afternoon! He believes the 'tourists' are still in the neighborhood. It may well be so, our enemy is not likely to give up now. And Emerson means to deal with the fellow himself, of course. I cannot permit that. Where is Abdullah? I must- "

I started to swing my feet off the bed. Cyrus sprang to my side, gently but firmly he forced me to lie back. "Amelia, if you don't stop this I will hold your nose and pour a dose of laudanum down your throat. You will only aggravate your injury if you don't give it a chance to heal."

"You are right, of course, Cyrus," I said. "It is so cursed inconvenient! I cannot even pace to relieve my pent-up feelings."

How quickly he had overcome his embarra.s.sment at being alone with me in my room! He was now actually sitting on the bed, and his hands still rested on my shoulders. He looked deeply into my eyes.

"Amelia-"

"Would you be good enough to get me a gla.s.s of water, Cyrus?"

"In a minute. You have to hear me out, Amelia. I can't stand this any longer."

Out of respect for feelings that were- I am convinced- genuine and profound, I will not record the words in which he poured them out. They were simple and manly, like Cyrus himself. When he paused I could only shake my head and say, "I am sorry, Cyrus."

"Then-there is no hope?"

"You forget yourself, my friend."

"I'm not the one that's forgotten," said Cyrus harshly. "He doesn't deserve you, Amelia. Give it up!"

"Never," I said. "Never, if it takes a lifetime."